


the calamity

by SD_Ryan



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hipsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Chubby bucky barnes, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gay Bucky Barnes, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Punk Steve Rogers, Stucky - Freeform, previous steggy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:03:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"He wants to tell her the truth, he does. He wants to come clean. To her. To Steve. To everyone. He wants to say these set-ups everyone forces on him aren’t necessary, because he’s already found someone. He’s already in love. But that way lies rejection and pain, and he can’t take it. He can’t. It’s all connected—a house of cards, and if he tips one piece …"</i>
</p><p>Or, How Many Millennials Will It Take To Get These Two Together? </p><p>Read on for:<br/>Overbearing moms and scheming friends. Fake boyfriends and secret love. Dive bars and tattoo parlors and Brooklyn trash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohsodirnty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohsodirnty/gifts), [iwillnotbecaged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillnotbecaged/gifts).



“Another one. _Another one_ , Steve.” 

Bucky doesn’t bother with a preamble, just passes by the jewelry display at the front of the shop and storms into Steve’s half-cubicle, collapsing onto the chair. He looks over helplessly, holding up a crisp white envelope. “I don’t think I can do it, I really don’t.”

“I just wiped that down that, you jerk. Now I have to disinfect the whole thing again before my nine o’clock.” 

Bucky frowns. Oh right. The antique tattoo chair in Steve’s station has to be cleaned between each customer, and he just mucked it up with his grease-stained coveralls. It’s an inconvenience, but for all his bluster, Steve’s not really mad, eyes twinkling behind thick black frames.

“Where’s this one gonna be?” Steve asks, already picking up the thread of Bucky’s desperation. “Chicago? Portland?” He pauses for effect, horror dawning. “Somewhere in the _South_?”

“Dunno,” Bucky mumbles, sensing a distinct lack of empathy coming from his best friend. “Haven’t opened it yet.”

“Well, then how do you even know what it is? Could be a really late birthday card. Or a census form.” For a guy who wears that much black, Steve sure tries to pass as a ray of sunshine.

Bucky frowns pointedly at the silver scrollwork framing the envelope and the address done in careful calligraphy. Even without those clues, he’s seen enough wedding invitations in his lifetime to pick one out by the weight and choice of stamp alone.

“This look like a census form to you?”

Steve shrugs. The skinny little punk is enjoying this way too much.

“Might as well open it and find out what you’re in for.”

Between his three sisters and eight cousins, Bucky’s attended more weddings than he’d care to remember. And though each one is a joyous and unique celebration of everlasting love, _ahem_ , there are two things he can count on, no matter what: they will always be held somewhere he can’t afford to travel, and they will always feature a horrible blind date of his family’s choosing. He thought the set-ups might finally draw to a close when he came out last year, but no, his family displayed their loving acceptance (and questionable taste) by foisting strange men on him instead of strange women. The thought of shelling out hundreds of dollars to fly to middle-of-nowhere Nebraska or bum-fuck Wyoming just to be forced to play nice with Aunt Tammy’s hair stylist or cousin Barb’s new designer makes him feel like heaving.

He leans back in the chair and closes his eyes with a groan. “I can’t do it again, Stevie. _I can’t._ ”

“You said that already.” Steve settles onto his stool and rolls closer to Bucky’s side. “You could always not go. That is an option, you know.”

Bucky sighs, letting himself feel his way through that fantasy. It’s a nice thought—for all of a second. Then reality crashes down, and he shakes it off. He’s got too much to make up for, and it just isn’t possible to skip out on stuff like this. The price of having run away, he figures.

“No. I missed so much already, I can’t miss out on anything else.” There’s no way to explain it better than that. Steve doesn’t have anyone left; he’s not under the constant pull of familial obligation. Bucky knows he’s an asshole for even thinking that, but at least he’s not so cruel he’ll say it out loud.

“Well, hand it over,” Steve says with a crooked smirk. “I’ll tell you how bad it is.”

Steve might have changed a lot in the years Bucky was gone—all the beautiful ink winding along his arms and over the sharp lines of his clavicle wasn’t there when they first met—but his smile hasn’t changed. That knowing little half-grin that says he’s always one step ahead of Bucky is still the same.

“Come on.” Steve creases his brows, hand outstretched. “We’ll do it quick, like a bandaid.”

Bucky passes over the envelope and chews on his lip as Steve tears into it.

“Pretty sure cousin Tommy’s up to bat. He and Mel had that look this Christmas.” Her family is from Boston, so that means Bucky will be heading to—

“Martha’s Vineyard it is! Thomas Francis Barnes and Melody Elizabeth Shaw request your presence on Sunday, the twelfth of July.”

Steve snickers as he sorts through the assorted envelopes and reply cards—more paperwork than Bucky deals with getting a prescription out of the VA, and that’s no small amount. “Francis,” he says under his breath, shaking his head. He taps Bucky’s arm and returns the stack. “How much you wanna bet Tommy begged to keep his middle name out of it?”

Bucky can’t even bring himself to smile. This is awful. _Awful_.

“It’s not so bad,” Steve says, chiming in with that bright side again. “It’s only a train ride up there. No planes. And you could probably bunk with Becca, wherever she decides to stay.”

Sure, he’ll probably stay with his sister and her family, but that’s not the only expense. “Then I gotta pay for a present, and take time off from work, and that’s not even mentioning the guy they’re gonna try to hook me up with.” From the history of his blind dates, you’d think his family’s only access to queer people was bad SNL skits and ads for chest-wax. “Why does everyone assume I’m into over-muscled beefcakes who can’t form a whole sentence?”

“Well, look at you,” Steve says with a weird hitch in his voice. “People like to see a matching set.”

“I’m not over-muscled! And I certainly know how to form a sentence, you asshat!”

Steve doesn’t even bother faking an apology. “Come on, Buck,” he laughs. “I know you’re not dumb, but you came back from Bagram looking like you could benchpress three of me.”

Bucky curls in on himself with a frown. He doesn’t like to think about being away, not because Afghanistan was particularly awful but because of how hard being gone was for the people he loves. He spent ninety percent of his time behind razor-wire fences, safe in the base garage patching up sand-crusted Humvees, but his mom still talks about the nightmares she had while he was overseas. And it’s not just the shit he put everyone through; it’s like his life was on pause for nearly three years, but everyone else kept going. Look at everything he missed with Stevie: finding his passion and opening a successful tattoo parlor, falling in and out of love, making a life in Brooklyn with his bizarre assortment of friends. Much as Steve has tried to catch him up, you can’t earn back moments you lost just by hearing about them.

Steve’s sitting here talking about Bucky like he came home some kind of specimen, when really that guy was just a placeholder for a person Bucky doesn’t know anymore. As for the way Bucky looks now, he’s distinctly aware there’s nothing to be proud of in his current physique. A steady diet of mom’s comfort food and cheap takeout have demolished any hint of strength remaining underneath the pudge.

“Well I don’t look like that anymore,” he mumbles. “And it’s besides the point. I’m not gonna hook up with anyone they thrust in my direction.”

Steve flares his nostrils, clearly holding something back. After a beat, he says, “They just want to see you happy, man.”

Bucky snorts. _Well, if they wanted that, they’d find a way to—_

“Dinner’s here, loser!” A husky voice shatters the moment. Steve’s business parter, Natasha, strolls in and drops a crinkled brown bag onto his lap. “Falafel. Extra harissa.” 

Steve groans in appreciation, and Bucky gathers up the invitation in his hands, his train of thought blessedly derailed. 

With her guarded smile and razor-sharp gaze, Nat has a way of turning every encounter into some weirdly intimate, one-sided dorm room therapy session. Bucky’s not surprised when she settles into her cubicle across the way and zeroes in on him. “What’s the word, Bucky? You look like someone killed your puppy.”

“Wedding invite,” Steve says by way of explanation, and Nat winces.

“Ouch. Sorry, dude.” She straddles a rolling chair and pulls out her food. “So which Barnes is biting the dust this time? Or is it someone on your mom’s side?”

“Tommy.”

“The one who used to shove you in the closet with the spiders and lock the door?”

Bucky shrugs. “He’s grown up. Now he’s only a dick when he’s drunk or playing Mario Kart.” 

Already, he feels like he’s given away more than he should. Bucky’s known this girl going on a year, and while she’s familiar with his most intimate history, he isn’t sure about basic things like where she grew up or if she has any family at all. And that’s exactly the way she wants it. Steve has a soft spot for her, but Bucky is in no mood for an interrogation, and he’s exhausted by the prospect of keeping his defenses up.

“I gotta go.” He brushes some invisible dirt from the armrest as he stands. “Sorry about messing up your chair.”

Steve screws his face up. “Don’t be stupid, Buck.” His stool slides away as he follows Bucky to the door. “You sure you can’t stay? I’m not gonna eat all of this—”

“Nah. I need a shower, and I gotta get into the garage early. Dugan wants me to replace a clutch first thing.”

“All right,” Steve says, clasping a hand on his shoulder, big blue eyes full of puppy-dog warmth. “Hey. Don’t let this wedding thing get you down. We can figure it out, okay?”

Bucky nods, forcing himself to pull away. He knows Steve means well. _You and me_ , Steve used to say. _If we got nothing else, at least we got each other._ He’s never let Bucky down before, and it’s hard to imagine such a thing ever happening. Bucky walks home as the late-spring warmth closes around him, grasping at that “we” like a secret hope or a favorite childhood memory, here and then gone.

 

* * *

 

Bucky’s scrubbing engine oil from his hands when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It wasn’t a bad day—Dugan kept him busy with work and Gabe kept him entertained with dirty jokes translated from French. He likes the garage. He’s good at what he does, and everything else has a habit of falling away while he’s elbow-deep in engine parts, fixing something broken. Of course, it’s been six days straight of sunrise wake-ups, so he’s looking forward to sleeping in and doing a fat lot of nothing on his day off tomorrow. When his nose is overwhelmed by the scent of citrus cleaner and all but the cracks of his skin are free from grime, he pats his hands dry and reaches for his phone, screen glowing with a new text.

 **_Stevie:_ ** _the soldier with the calamity @10?_

Indecipherable as it might seem, Bucky knows exactly what the message means. The Orphaned Soldier is their neighborhood dive slash punk club. The beer’s cheap, the lighting dim, and the bathroom filthy. Bucky likes it well enough, and a drink with Steve sounds great, even if he has to contend with whoever the fuck “the calamity” ends up being tonight. The moniker was once confusing, because Steve and Nat’s shop is Calamity Tattoo—based on an old inside joke from when they were apprenticing together. Meanwhile, "the calamity” is shorthand for a whole range of over-styled, underpaid Brooklyn millennials that have found a community around the shop. So both a place and a people. They’re not a bad group, but it’d be better if Bucky didn’t feel like the adopted child, everyone oversolicitous in their effort to prove Steve’s pet friend really belongs.

Generally, it’s a solid fifty-fifty he’ll go out when Steve asks, but he says yes right away, in no mood to go home and stare at the TV until passing out. He jots off a text, startling when his phone rings almost immediately.

 _The fuck, Steve, I said I’d come_. 

He swipes to answer just as he registers it isn’t Steve calling. Fuck. _Fuck fuck fuck!_

“Hey, Ma,” he says, failing to keep the frown out of his voice. “What’s up?”

“Did you get Tommy’s invite? It should have come yesterday.”

He waves to Dugan and the boys, eager to get this conversation out of earshot. It’s already dark as he makes his way through the neighborhood. People passing on the street look more bright-eyed and ready for an evening out than tired and rumpled from their homeward commute.

“Uh.” He pauses, every possible reply sticking in his throat. “Yeah, it came.”

“Good! So Ginger set up a block of houses for us already,” she says at breakneck speed. “You have to book way ahead on the Vineyard during the summer, but we’re all set. I figured you, Becca, and Beth could share one place, so you can have some time with the kids—”

“Ma,” he says as horror settles in the pit of his stomach.

“—There’s the rehearsal dinner on Friday and a family picnic on Saturday and then the wedding on Sunday afternoon,” she goes on, ignoring Bucky’s attempt to brake the runaway train of her thoughts. “Now it’s going to be an outdoor situation, so your linen suit will be fine. And Mel has a friend from college who sounds like a perfect fit for you. He’s an EMT, handsome as anything, and he even lives in the city—”

“ _Ma.”_

“—so if you two hit it off, he’d be real close—”

 _“Ma! Stop!_ ” 

A woman walking her dog stops to stare. Bucky speeds his pace, unable to outrun either his mother's voice or the dirty looks.

“What?” his ma says, deadly slow.

He can’t do this. He just can’t. He has to find a way out of this. “I don’t think …” 

She gives him all but a second’s breath before she pounces. It’s like blood in the water; he swears the woman can smell his hesitation. “Now, look, I know you and Tommy haven’t always been the closest, but he’s _family_ , Bucky. Ginger was so sad you couldn’t be there for Julie’s graduation, and now her only son is getting married …”

Bucky misses the rest of the sentence, sound drowned out by a deafening internal scream.

“I’m coming! Okay, Ma? I’ll be there.”

Instantly, the barren desert of her voice blooms sunny and green. “Good! I’ll tell Mel to talk to her friend—”

“No! Don’t do that,” he says before he can think it through. “I’m bringing a date. You don’t need to set me up, all right?”

“You’re bringing a date?”

_Oh fuck._

“Yeah.” He’ll figure it out. He’ll find someone. He has to. No way he’s spending a weekend with Mel’s EMT friend.

She’s a suspicious woman, Rose Barnes, too shrewd for anyone’s good. “You mean like a friend.”

Bucky tightens his grip on his phone. He hates lying to her. Hates the alternative more. “A _date_ , Ma.”

“Oh my God! That’s great Bucky!” she rattles on, not pausing for breath. “Who is it? No, don’t tell me, I wanna be surprised. A date—George! Did you hear that? Bucky’s bringing a date!—I’m so excited for you, baby.”

It’s another five minutes before he’s sunk his key into his lock, only just managing to extract himself from the conversation. He showers and eats some dinner, but there’s still too much time between him and the distraction of the bar. He’s sitting on his couch when it finally hits, what he’s done. Then he’s scrambling for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before he loses the fight and empties his stomach with a groan.

 

* * *

 

A few hours later and Bucky is tucked into a booth at the back of The Orphaned Soldier, fuzzy-brained and loose-limbed. It’s a full house tonight, the whole gang here. Somehow he’s avoided buying a single round yet, trapped as he is between Steve on his right and Peggy and Angie on his left. He figures his turn will come at some point, but until then he’s happy to reap the benefits of his own laziness. Across from him, Nat is whispering into Clint’s good ear, feet planted in his lap, a row of empty shot glasses overturned on the table in front of them. They’ve pulled up a couple chairs from another table, leaving zero walkway between them and the bar’s much-used pool table. Nat’s ignoring the grumbled comments from the guys trying to play a game, and Bucky’s keeping tabs on the low simmering tension, watching for the moment it might boil over. Lord knows Nat isn’t adverse to instigating a confrontation, and Steve will never back down from defending a friend (even if the friend in question brought shit down onto her own head). The only problem he foresees if violence does break out is the extra seconds it’s gonna take him to get out from the middle of the booth. Might not seem like much, but it’s amazing how fast Steve can get himself hurt. Been in enough bar fights and back alley scrambles with the punk to know that. He’s shaking his head, amused by the thought, when a tug on his earlobe pulls his attention back.

“You should let me give you something, Bucky. You have such pretty skin, but it’s so _boring_ like this.” Peggy is listing into his space, her usually-crisp accent slurred. “Look, Angie, wouldn’t his eyes stand out with an eyebrow bar just here? And that nose was built for a septum piercing. Ooh,” she says, wide eyes darting over to Steve. “Think about all he could do with a tongue bar.”

“Hands off, Carter. And keep your fucking needles away from me.” Why are Steve’s friends always trying to poke him with shit?

Peggy frowns, red lips pursing. A few fancy cocktails have smudged her pin-up aesthetic—carefully curled hair falling loose, gingham dress rumpled, black eye-liner more smokey than sharp. “He’s so mean,” she says, sliding down in the booth. “Why are you so mean?”

“I’m not mean, I’m discouraging handsy drunken girls from putting holes in me.”

“Come here, English,” Angie says. “Leave the boy alone.” The petite blonde at Peggy’s side pulls her close, distracting her with a long, lingering kiss. It’s an effective end to the conversation, and Bucky makes a note to thank her later.

He feels a certain kinship with Angie. She’s an outsider as much as he is—the only two in the group whose cheques aren’t signed by Calamity Tattoo—and the only other person in this fucked-up little commune who doesn’t have ink or piercings or neon colored hair. She’s working her way through the off-Broadway theaters and says body mods don’t do starving actors any favors. Of course everyone respects _her_ autonomy. Meanwhile, they treat Bucky’s virgin skin like it’s open season.

The thing is, any one of them could give him a gorgeous piece. Peggy specializes in piercings, obviously, but she’s also the resident stylist, and she’s often said how much she’d like to get her hands on Bucky’s long hair. If he wanted a tattoo of an old movie monster or something grotesque—bloody knives or zombie girls or flaming skulls—Clint is definitely the one to see. Steve specializes in traditional American style and hyper-realistic portraits. And Nat can do anything, but her watercolor work is fucking untouchable. He could get something from any of them, and it would be beautiful. But tattoos are all about making a statement, a reflection of identity, and Bucky has no idea what the hell he has to say.

He takes a swig and glowers at the table, exhausted by his own self-pity. He shouldn’t have come out tonight. It was stupid to think he’d be in any shape for public consumption after that phone call with his ma. He has no idea how he’s going to get himself out of this wedding mess, but moping like this isn’t gonna help.

“You know Peggy’s trying to flatter you, right?” Steve’s breath against his neck breaks his train of thought. “In her own inebriated way, that was supposed to be a compliment.”

Well, Steve would know compliments from Peggy, wouldn’t he, intimate as they were once upon a time. Steve and Peggy lived together for a brief time while Bucky was away, but it didn’t work out. She’s happy with Angie, and Bucky has no evidence any of them regret how things have gone. He hasn’t figured out how Steve can stand to be so close to someone he used to love, but maybe it’s just him. Even if it worked out all right, those feelings run deep. It’s gotta hurt.

 _Hey there, Pot,_ he thinks with a grimace, _lemme introduce you to Kettle._

Bucky chucks Steve’s shoulder, taking special care not to let his gaze linger. It’s not so bad when he’s sober, but he’s more than a few beers in now, and his eyes have a mind of their own. It’s fucking ridiculous how much he likes the look of Steve’s mouth, how much he’d like to taste it, but if going away for three years didn’t break him of that desire, what the fuck will?

He glances up, sees Steve waiting for a response, and plasters on a smile. “I know. Peggy’s cool. It’s all good.”

“She’s not wrong, though.” Steve’s grin turns wicked. “You _could_ do amazing things with a tongue bar.”

Bucky nearly tips his bottle, cuffing Steve on the back of his head. “The fuck, Rogers!”

Steve sure has an enormous cackle for such a little guy (and a hugely-filthy mind to go along with that oversized laugh). Bucky tries to pull a frown, desperate to not give away exactly how familiar he is with the benefits of a tongue piercing. He feels the blush coming on anyway, tantalizing memories floating to the surface. It was just the once, during basic. After a few days of flirting, Mark, a thin guy with cropped blond hair, cornered Bucky in the showers and showed him exactly what one might do with a piece of jewelry like that. That was before Staff Sergeant Coulson discovered the bar and made Mark remove it. Turned out it was against regs. Well, so were bathroom blowjobs, come to think of it. Tragic loss, all around.

“So, Bucky,” Nat says, smirking like she knows exactly what was just running through his mind. “Any word on the impending nuptials of Thomas Francis? Your mom pick out a date for you yet?”

Bucky groans, head dropping to the table with a _thunk_. “Oh, God. Why you gotta bring that up, Nat?”

“I’m a sadist at heart,” she says, full of amusement. 

“What’s this?” The potential gossip draws Peggy away from Angie’s kiss. “ _Another_ wedding? Good lord, Bucky, how many Barneses are there?”

“A lot,” Steve laughs. “Good old Catholics.”

To his horror, Nat picks up the thread he was hoping she’d drop. “So I take it that’s a yes to the date. Who is he this time? Aunt Ginger’s barista? Cousin Julie’s trainer?”

How does she remember all these people? Bucky can barely keep track of all the second cousins and great aunts in his family, and here she is diving into his family tree like they’re old pals. 

Forehead sticking to the beer-stained wood, Bucky mumbles, “Mel’s EMT friend. But I’m not doing it.” He sits up with a frown. “I told Ma no.”

“You’re not gonna go?” Steve’s brows reach toward his hairline. “Good for you.”

Bucky shakes his head miserably. The approval Steve’s broadcasting makes it that much worse. “No, I’m still going, but I told Ma I was bringing someone, so she wouldn’t try to set me up.”

He expects a collective groan or some sign of sympathy. Even unmasked judgement for his stupidity would be reasonable, but there’s nothing. Blank stares meet him from every corner—except for Nat. She’s the only one who’s caught on, puffed up, beyond-delighted. Her shrill laughter breaks, and Bucky wants to sink into the earth.

“I’m so totally fucked.”

“So what’s the problem?” Clint says, head swiveling between the two of them. “I don’t get it. Ask a friend to go. You have friends, right?”

Peggy kicks Clint under the table, biting out his name, and he pales.

“Shit! Sorry. Sorry, man,” he fumbles. “I meant, ask one of your many friends.”

“I’ll go with you, Buck,” Steve says, nothing subtle about the glare he’s aiming at Clint. Then he turns, beaming that sunshine smile. “It’ll be fun.”

Bucky’s breath catches in his throat, and he wonders if it was always this easy? Could he have been misreading things the whole time? Is this new, or has Steve always felt this way? Then cold realization smacks him in the face, and he registers Steve’s only talking about going as friends. For the second time today, he worries he'll lose his lunch.

“Yeah, Bucky, you should take Steve,” Nat says with more cruelty than he imagined she possessed. She slides her words out slowly, cutting him with each elongated syllable. “Steve would be _perfect_. _”_

She smirks, and it takes everything his has to keep from jumping across the table and tackling her.

“Why are you talking like that?” Steve says, picking up on her tone. He’s looks confused as all hell as the silent conversation unfolds around him.

“She’s being a dick.”

Unashamed, Nat nods. “True.”

“She knows I told Ma I’m bringing a date, not a friend. _A date_. And she thinks it’s fucking hilarious.”

“Also true.” Eyes locked on his, Nat reaches across the table and steals Bucky’s beer, draining it. “My suggestion still stands. You should take Steve.”

“ _Natasha_.” Steve’s voice is full of warning. Of course it is. Now that he knows what he was unwittingly offering, he wants to take it back. He and Steve, they’re not like that.

“I’m not taking Steve as my fucking date,” Bucky hisses, afraid to even look in his friend’s direction.

Nat’s little joke is veering into dangerous territory, and Bucky’s not sure how much longer he can hold out before he does something drastic to make her shut the fuck up. She’s watching him, seemingly unaffected by his rage. Mouth of the bottle caught between her thumb and middle finger, she swings it like a metronome. 

“Hey, isn’t it your turn to buy a round, Barnes?” she says, voice flat as her gaze.

_What is she playing at?_

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Steve tensed for a fight or, at the very least, ready to drag Bucky out of here. Clint is bewildered as ever, and Peggy’s whispering something into Angie’s ear. Fuck this. He’s not their live entertainment. Whatever show Nat is hoping to see, she’s not gonna get it.

“Yeah, fine,” he grits out, nudging Steve. “Lemme out.”

“Buck,” Steve says, sliding out of the booth. “Hey, why don’t we talk about—”

Bucky doesn’t pause to listen to whatever reassuring drivel Steve wants to feed him. “It’s fine. Back in a minute.”

By the time he’s paid for drinks and carried them over, he’s decided he’s done for the evening. Nothing more can be gained by staying, and a whole lot could be lost.

“I’m calling it. See you guys later,” he says to Steve, eyes pointedly avoiding the rest.

“You don’t gotta go.” Steve pushes up from the booth. “Come on, Buck.” 

“Nah, it’s been a long ass day,” he says with a note of false bravado, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “Don’t let those drinks go to waste, okay? Paid good money for ‘em.”

Steve nods wordlessly, and Bucky turns toward the red glow of the exit, followed by a muted chorus of farewells.

 

* * *

 

The worst part isn’t that Nat has so obviously recognized what Bucky’s been hiding since the first time he met Steve. It isn’t that she stole into his secret heart and tore the fucker apart like a broken engine. It isn’t that she humiliated him in front of everyone or that she nearly destroyed a façade he’s worked so hard to maintain—casually, with delight—just because she could. It isn’t any of those things.

The worst part is that she’s right.

Aside from the obvious downside of maybe getting his guts ripped out by participating in a sham relationship with the man he (really) (truly) loves, taking Steve to the wedding is the logical choice. He wouldn’t have to pretend with Steve, faking affection he doesn’t have for some asshole he doesn’t know. He could be believably in love with Steve, enough to convince any audience. And knowing that they’ve been best friends since high school, knowing how important Steve is to Bucky, knowing their boy is in good hands—or at the very least, being persuaded of all these things—his family might finally leave him the fuck alone about the boyfriend thing and get on with their lives. If he could bring Steve, just this once, and convincingly act out a relationship with him, he would be off the hook for the foreseeable future. No more blind dates. No more awkward Easter dinners with strange men, no more watching his ma get more and more desperate with each passing day he’s single. He’d be done. Set. Checked off the list.

_“How are things with Steve?”_

_“Everything’s great! Just saw him this afternoon. He sends his love.”_

It’s almost too much to hope for. Short of magically discovering a soulmate in the next few weeks, it’s the best possible option.

Well, it would be, if he actually had a chance of getting Steve to agree.

.

.

.

In the end, it turns out that’s the easiest part.

 

* * *

 

The light is too bright and the knocking too loud. His tongue feels like a thick, fuzzy slug and he thinks his brain might be trying to escape his skull. There’s another awful knock and he rolls over, squinting. He can’t make out the digits on the clock, but it’s too early. Whatever the fuck time it is, it’s too fucking early. When the knocking doesn’t stop, he forces himself out of bed, stumbling to the door of his apartment in nothing but his boxers. He’s aware of this fact only after he swings the door open and discovers Steve on his threshold—in a suit and tie.

_The hell?_

“What do you think?” the little shit says, way too chipper for this time of day. “Do I look the part?”

“Why are you dressed like a funeral, Steve?” Bucky mumbles, hiding his lower half behind the door, conscious of how under-clothed he is.

Heedless of Bucky’s embarrassment, Steve pushes his way in and turns, planting himself in the living room with the unwieldy resolve of a pit-bull puppy.

“Look, I know you’d rather have someone else, but I’m here if you want me. Use me however you need.” Steve turns crimson, eyes wide. “I mean, um, I can be your date. To the wedding. If that’s what you want.”

The door swings closed as Bucky takes in the determined set of Steve’s shoulders, the sharp cut of his black on black suit, the matt elegance of his dress shoes. Steve looks good. Better than good. The suit is tasteful, but not boring. It covers most of his tattoos—all but the letters spelling out BROOKLYN across his knuckles—but doesn’t hide the scrappy set of his mouth or the flash of blue in his hair. He looks like Stevie, all cleaned up. Handsome as hell. Perfect.

Bucky crosses his arms as the words finally sink in.

“You … want to be my date? You’d do that?”

“Of course.”

“You’d have to pretend, you know. Ma’s not gonna fall for it if we’re just, like, pals.”

Steve grins the way he has a thousand times, warm and teasing. And maybe a little sad. “I think I can manage, Buck.”

Before he knows what he’s done, Bucky’s lifting Steve in a crushing hug and spinning him like a rag doll. “You’re the best, Stevie! You won’t regret this, I swear!”

“Put me down, you jerk! I’m already regretting it!” he huffs, kicking Bucky’s shins. “I ain’t a fucking toy!”

Bucky flushes and nearly drops Steve in his haste to put him down. “Fuck. Sorry,” he says, lowering his gaze.

… and realizes he's still in his boxers. And still a fucking idiot.

“Get some clothes on, asshole, and we can go get some breakfast.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, daring a glance. Steve’s straightening his glasses, cheeks tinged pink. Bucky swallows down the urge to hug him again. “Yeah,” he says instead. “That sounds good. I could mainline some coffee right now.” He makes his way to his room and rummages through a pile of dirty laundry to find a semi-clean pair of jeans and a shirt.

It’s gonna be okay. He can do this. He can totally do this.

“And Bucky?” Steve calls.

“Yeah?”

“You’re paying.”

Bucky furrows his brows, wondering if that's some prescient remark. Yeah, he'll pay.

 _Maybe in more ways than one_.

 

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which history begins, before it repeats itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** Blood. Violence.

The kid’s already a broken mess by the time Bucky drops his backpack and pushes his way through the half circle of bodies. He told Becca to stay behind with the girls, but he knows it’s a lost cause getting his big sister to do anything. He recognizes a few faces among the spectators, people from school, people he’ll avoid later on. Most assembled in the alley are more eager to see the blood fly than to do any damage themselves. Bucky thinks the gawkers are almost as bad as the three figures kicking and stomping the crumpled mass on the pavement. Almost. 

“Hey, knock it off!” he says on instinct, but when he actually gets a look at the kid—a little guy with skinned elbows and fragile bird limbs—hot rage boils through him. “What the fuck are you _doing_?”

Bucky has never thrown a punch in his life, but he doesn’t hesitate now, pulling back one of the attackers by his collar and glancing his fist off the fleshy mound of his cheek. The guy stumbles away, more startled than hurt, and shakes his head.

“The fuck, man?”

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” And it’s such a cliche. Such a Hollywood-cheese line, but to his astonishment it works. The other two stop their assault and turn, cold eyes assessing him.

Bucky stands up tall, trying to make himself look bigger. As bad as the odds are, he knows it’d be a lot more expedient to scare these three away than to actually have to fight them. One of them steps forward, a thin-lipped guy with dark hair and a square forehead. His height and build say he’s at least a year older than Bucky, maybe more, and Bucky swallows down the fear shivering through him.

“You want in on this?” He’s wearing a rictus grin, eyes black and empty of emotion. Dead eyes. “You sure about that, little boy?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, ignoring the tremor in his voice. “What kind of limp-dick asshole beats on a kid half his size?”

Dead Eyes takes a step forward to the chorus of his friends’ laughter and the encouragement of the crowd. Bucky’s pretty sure he’s going to end up in the hospital for this, and _Jesus_ is his ma is gonna be mad. Hungry eyes surround him, and he knows the assembled masses are as eager for the splatter of his blood as they were for the poor kid’s. That thought settles it for him. Even if every instinct is screaming at him to run, to get away and avoid the beating that’s sure to come, he can’t leave that kid alone. Bucky plants his feet, fists hovering protectively in front of his face as the guy pulls his arm back to swing—

“Brock Rumlow!” A shout pierces the expectant hush of the alley.

—and the blow never lands.

Becca sidles up next to Bucky, a vision of fifteen-year-old fury. “You piece of shit. Get away from my brother and take your ass home before I tell Coach what you been getting up to in your free time.”

Bucky gapes at Becca and turns back to the looming threat. Dead Eyes—Rumlow—has dropped his fists, head cocked and attention on Becca. She knows this asshole?

“Hey, Barnes,” he says with a greasy purr. “This your baby brother? He ain’t too smart.”

Becca shifts, crossing her arms and staring him down with cool authority. Rumlow looks her over, a creepy appraisal that makes Bucky want to take a swing and damn the consequences. As though she knows exactly what he’s thinking, Becca steps in front of Bucky, blocking him from view.

“You need to leave, Brock.”

Rumlow moves a few feet back, stepping into Bucky’s line of sight, and motions his cronies to his side. “He’s gonna get himself hurt, mouth like that. You, too, if you don’t watch it.”

Bucky tenses, and Becca shakes her head minutely. She holds up her phone, playing a video of three boys kicking a straw-headed pile of bones. From the angle, you can see Rumlow’s face clear as day. “Maybe Coach won’t care, but I bet the cops would frown on this kind of behavior. You wanna find out?”

Anger flashes in his eyes, and for a second Bucky thinks Brock might try to take them both down. Then the painted-on sneer returns, and he huffs, “Got better shit to do anyway. See you later, Barnes.” He moves through the crowd, almost out of the alley before lobbing one parting shot. “Instead of shooting it off, maybe next time you show me what else that pretty mouth of yours can do.”

“You fuck!” Bucky scrambles and lunges, but he’s caught in Becca’s grip before he makes it any distance.

“Bucky, stop!” she says. “Let it go.”

Rumlow cackles down the sidewalk while Bucky fights his sister’s iron hold. “Come back here, you prick!” he shouts, adolescent voice cracking.

“Bucky,” she says, desperate. “He needs help, and I can’t—come _on_. Stop it!”

The rumpled mass on the pavement groans, and Bucky goes cold with realization.

“Okay, I’m okay. Lemme go, Becca.”

She releases him, and he skids to the ground next to the boy. Show over, the crowd disperses, leaving two little girls like tiny pillars in their wake. Becca gathers her sisters in her arms and hovers. She’s never been good with blood.

Bucky's hands shake with unspent adrenaline as he checks the kid over. It’s bad. The boy is on his side, curled into himself and wheezing. His lip is split, and he’s definitely gonna have have a shiner. His clothes are grimy and torn, and every bit of exposed skin blooms red and purple with scrapes and bruises. Could have broken ribs or worse, the way Rumlow and friends were kicking him, but Bucky can’t know for sure until the kid speaks up.

“Hey,” Bucky says, gentling a hand over a bony shoulder. “Hey, you okay, kid? Can you talk?”

“Not a fucking kid,” he grumbles, voice surprisingly low. He coughs and tries to push up, crumpling with a wince.

“Wait! Don’t move yet. Think anything’s broken? Should we call an ambulance?”

The kid rolls onto his back, squinting at Bucky with bloodshot blue eyes. There’s something familiar about his oversized beak of a nose and the determined crush of his brows, and Bucky realizes he knows this guy. He doesn’t look a day over ten, but Bucky’s seen him shuffling down the hall at school, gigantic backpack hanging off the thin scaffolding of his shoulders, eyes on the ground. He’s the same grade as Bucky—so thirteen maybe? Hard to believe.

“I’m fine. Nothing’s broke,” the little guy says. He rolls over, pushing up on his hands and knees, surprisingly steady. “See my glasses anywhere? Or my backpack?”

Bucky exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Glasses?” he parrots stupidly. _How is he even moving?_  Bucky’s sure he’d want to be carried out of here on a stretcher if he’d gone through that.

“They’re right there.” Bucky's sister, Beth, sprints towards a shadowed corner and picks up a navy backpack and some twisted metal frames not far off.

She hands Bucky the pack while her agile little fingers work on the glasses. “Sorry. These are busted up pretty bad. Lemme see what I can do.” For a ten year old, Beth has amazing fine motor skills and a solid grasp on how things work. She gets the temples into a more reasonable form, pops a loose lens back in, and passes them over. “You’re gonna need to get ‘em fixed, but at least you can see to get home.”

The kid smiles at her, and Bucky’s heart clenches. He’s kind of tired of thinking of this kid as “the kid”.

“That’s Beth. I’m Bucky. What’s your name?”

The kid blinks, one lid swollen and unmoving. Then he remembers his glasses and puts them on, looking face to face and nodding to each in turn. “Beth. Bucky. Becca?” He lands on the tiny figure curled into Becca's side and snorts in realization. “Who’s this one, Bunny?”

“Bonnie,” Bucky’s littlest sister says, too sweet to understand the implied insult.

“You gotta be kidding me.” He laughs, more fond than cruel. “I was close, huh?” He says this to Bonnie, and she nods, cheeks flushing. He looks up, meeting Bucky’s gaze briefly, then addresses the larger group. “I’m Steve. Thank you.”

“How’d you get on Brock’s bad side, Steve? I’ve seen him beat people up before, but he looked like he was ready to kill you.” Becca is keeping her distance, eyes flicking to the blood on Steve’s face and away again.

“He and his friends were messing with Lipstick Joe, kicking his stuff around and tearing up his sign. I told them to knock it off, and they dragged me back here.”

Lipstick Joe is one of the neighborhood homeless. From what Bucky can tell, he’s harmless, if a little eccentric—a burly guy with dreadlocks who happens to favor a vibrant shade of red lipstick. Bucky’s always wondered who came up with that name and whether Joe likes it or not.

“All this for telling them to knock it off?” Bucky motions toward the whole of Steve’s battered body, incredulous. “Seems a little much.”

Steve dips his head, mumbling, “Well, when they wouldn’t leave Joe alone, I might have made aspersions about certain parts of their anatomy.”

Becca’s eyes pop. “Seriously?” When Bucky laughs, she glares. “You shut it, mister. You were just as bad.” She turns to Steve, exasperated. “What are you, like nine? You’re a kitten taking swipes at angry pit bulls.”

“I can take care of myself,” Steve says, the words sounding well-worn.

“Clearly.”

“And I’m the same age as Bucky, anyway,” he adds, pushing to his feet.

Bucky wonders how Steve would know that, but figures he must have seen him around school, too. Before he can think on it too much, Steve lists to the side, and Bucky clasps an arm around him, holding him steady. “Whoa, there. I gotcha.” The little guy doesn’t pull away, and Bucky’s chest fills with a warm sort of ache.

“Come on, Bruiser,” Becca says with a chuckle. “Let’s get you home.”

The five of them shuffle out of the alley like a battle-weary platoon, grasping each other as they step into the afternoon sun.

 

 

 

 

... 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"He used to like to dance. He used to be good. Like so many other things—making friends, chasing thrills, feeling at home in his skin—he has no idea where it went. He used to be somebody. When the hell did he turn into this shell?"_
> 
> A movie, a phone call, a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** Excessive drinking.

“This movie is awful. Why is this considered a classic?” Bucky frowns at the TV, wondering if it would help if the picture were a little more clear. He suspects not.

The 90s-era RCA he found at the pawn shop down the road is like everything else in his place, mostly functional and scrounged up for next to nothing. For instance, he picked up the DVD player cranking out their current selection on the sidewalk. There’s no remote, and the pause button doesn’t work, but other than that, it’s fine. He discovered the milk crate that serves as an entertainment stand next to the dumpster behind his building. The ugly floral couch he and Steve are sitting on migrated here from Ma’s basement when she and Pop remodeled, and Becca gifted him with the scratched up coffee table he’s using as a footrest after she replaced her whole living room with stuff from IKEA. Bucky has what he needs and doesn’t worry about the rest. He’s comfortable enough here watching a movie with Steve, even if his place is a shithole.

“I don’t know, man,” Steve says, mumbling around a mouthful of veggie lo mein. “I was expecting more gas-shortage apocalypse and old school punk style. These dudes are like suburban biker dads with too much time on their hands.”

“No, you’re thinking of _Road Warrior_. Maybe we should have Redboxed that instead.” Bucky takes up the carton of spring rolls and digs in. He’s edging toward over-stuffed, but in absence of a satisfying cinematic experience, he wants something to fill him up.

On screen, lead biker dad dude is pontificating like this is Shakespeare, not some cheesy Australian action flick. The music rises dramatically as the gang drives off in search of trouble, and Bucky rolls his eyes. “Okay, but,” he says, stabbing his chopsticks toward the screen. “Why are these people so invested in killing each other? There’s no fucking motivation.”

Steve laughs, eyes crinkling behind black frames. “You’re overthinking it. Far as I can tell, the whole point is to cram in as many car chases and grisly death scenes as possible. I don’t think they’re overly concerned with motivation.”

“But that’s such a cop out.”

“The new one’s supposed to be good. Nat says she walked out of the theater feeling like she’d done three lines of coke, ready to—and I quote— _rip the patriarchy a new asshole_.” Steve takes another bite, chuckling.

Bucky bites down, teeth grinding as he turns back toward the screen. He could do without the ghost of Nat hovering over them. In his periphery, he catches Steve looking at him, and he tries to school his expression. It’s a lost cause, Steve shifting on the couch, knee brushing Bucky’s thigh.

“Want to turn it off? We don’t have to sit through it if you hate it that much.”

“Nah. S’okay,” he says with a shrug. “Hey, you gonna finish that lo mein?” 

Steve passes the carton and settles back into the overstuffed floral monstrosity. They’re closer than they were before, and the tingling points of contact leave Bucky tipsy with want. He’ll suffer through the movie, not just because he’s suddenly warm and buzzing, though that is nice. The truth is he misses Steve, and he’s afraid he might call it a night if they turn the movie off. Between their work schedules and all the group outings, it’s been forever since they’ve made time to hang out, just the two of them. The last time was that breakfast they shared—Steve in his fancy suit and Bucky stealing glances over his fried eggs. That was early April, and here it is, the end of May already. 

He needs this, time alone. No pressure to fit in. No daunting social landscape to navigate, tripping over inside jokes and workplace drama. No dodging Nat’s innuendoes and Peggy’s knowing glances. Just him and Steve, the way it was before he went overseas. Two idiots making each other smile.

He’d fucked it up, of course. If Bucky feels like an outsider in his own town, a usurper of his own friend, he’s got no one to blame but himself. He’d panicked and run, unable to face the absolute shit human being he’d become at the time Steve had needed him most. Steve’s never held it against him, but that’s because he’s _Steve-fucking-Rogers_ , and for whatever reason, he’s always had a blind spot where Bucky was concerned.

Anyway, it’s over now, and he’s back. All Bucky can do is nudge himself into Steve’s new life and do his best to be the friend he wasn’t.

“So I’ve been talking to the crew,” Steve says when there’s a lull between death scenes. “And I think we’re going to do a rooftop thing for my birthday. You in?”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Bucky scrolls through his mental calendar. He’d looked this up, though it’s still a few weeks out. “The Fourth’s a Saturday this year, right?”

“Why, Bucky Barnes, have you been anticipating my birthday?” Steve teases, eyelashes fluttering.

The coquettish tone hits Bucky in the solar plexus, and he shoves Steve to cover his embarrassment. “Shut it, punk. I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t have to take time off from work, since the following weekend is Tommy’s wedding.”

“Oh, right. The _wedding_ ,” he says with an odd emphasis.

Bucky swallows, frowning at the way Steve’s expression has gone sort of blank and unreadable. “You still in? I mailed the reply card, so …” He’s fucked if Steve changed his mind, but what can he do? He’s not gonna force the guy.

“‘Course I’m in. I haven’t seen the folks in a while—it’ll be nice to catch up.” Steve pushes up from the couch and heads towards the mini-fridge. It’s a retreat, if Bucky’s ever seen one, and what the hell is that about? “Hey, you want another beer?”

His reply sticks in his throat, heart thumping against his ribs. “Yeah, thanks.”

Steve settles back down and hands him a can. There’s space between them where there wasn’t before, and Bucky’s cursing himself for bringing up the wedding at all. Of course it’s making Steve uncomfortable. Fuck.

“You sure you’re okay taking time away from the shop?” He can give Steve an out, if that’s what he wants. “Ma says it’s a whole weekend thing, and we’d probably have to head out early Friday to make it in time for the rehearsal dinner. If it’s gonna be a problem—”

“It’s all covered. I’ve blacked out those days in my appointment book,” he says, scrappy determination writ across his face. “And the shop will survive a weekend without me.”

“Great.” Bucky nods to the room, wondering if Steve has ever backed down from a challenge. They both know the answer to that one, don’t they? “Great.”

Bucky studies Steve’s profile a moment longer, lingering on the row of piercings along the shell of his ear and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a swig from the can. He turns back to the screen, lost to his own thoughts. It’s after midnight by the time Steve leaves. Bucky has to be up and in the garage early, but sleep is a reluctant friend. He tosses and turns, chased by images of Steve in a black suit, smiling under a star-splashed sky.

 

* * *

 

“So how long have you and Steve been fucking?”

Bucky sprays soda across the lap of his coveralls, dousing his lunch in the process. He fumbles the can to the counter, working through a wet coughing fit.

“ _The fuck, Becca?_ ” Phone cradled to his ear, he ignores his sister’s cackling and grabs a handful of paper towels from the dispenser next to the garage sink. Great. At the end of the day he’s gonna be fucking greasy and  _sticky_.

From under the chassis of a black Ford Explorer, Morita calls, “You okay there, Barnes?”

“Fine,” he grits out and moves toward Dugan’s empty office, anticipating the need for privacy. If he’d known Becca was going ambush him like that, he wouldn’t have answered the phone at all. When the door is closed, he bites out, “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

“You heard me,” she says. “How long have you and Steve been hiding the sausage? Crossing streams? Easing on down to Puckertown?”

“Jesus Christ, Becca!”

As the oldest, and ostensibly the most responsible of the four kids, Becca carries herself with an air of authority, even when she’s using language that would make a construction worker blush. And maybe because he’s thought about it so often—in the dark of his room, with no one there to witness his shame—his sister’s assertion gives him pause. Is she right? Have they been fucking?

_Wait. What?_

No.

“We-we’re not—” he stammers, drawing a head-clearing breath. “We’re not fucking. Why would you say that?”

“Oh,” she says, drawing the pause out. Bucky knows a setup when he hears one. “So Steve’s not your plus one for the wedding? Or did you lie to Ma about bringing a date?”

With all the terror of being trapped in a plummeting elevator, realization hits him.

_Oh shit. Ohshitohshitohshit._

“Well …” he says, stalling. How the hell is he supposed to play this? He’s _supposed_ to be dating Steve. They’re supposed to be fucking. Ma won’t buy this charade if Becca squeals; her belief is essential in avoiding a future revolving door of unwelcome blind dates. “I mean, we’re taking it slow, you know? We, uh, didn’t want to freak anyone out. Since he’s like. Family.”

It’s perhaps the dumbest thing he’s ever said, but what the hell else can he do? There’s a long silence on the line that leaves him squirming. If it were anyone else, he might think the call had dropped. But he knows Becca. Devious little shit is just giving him rope to hang himself. He’s not going to do it. He’s not.

“So,” she says, at last. “You’re dating Steve, but you’re not _fucking_ Steve. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Well …” Bucky pulls his bun loose and yanks on his hair, scalp prickling. Maybe stimulating blood flow to the brain will help dig him out of this mess.

“And you didn’t tell me because you’re worried about how it would look?”

“Um.”

“ _Bucky_.” A mother twice over, Becca has the most terrifying mom-voice of anyone he knows. Including his own ma. “If you want people to stop setting you up, you need to _tell them_.”

“I don’t know what you—look, Steve and I are together. It’s been in the works for a while. We’re just, you know, private.” He’s pacing the worn concrete of Dugan’s office, tiny circles truncated for lack of space. This pathetic farce is a single tug away from unravelling. He needs to change the subject. “Anyway, how did you know he was my plus one? The card didn’t ask for a name.” 

“You marked ‘vegetarian meal’ for your date.” She adds a snide emphasis to that last word.

And how she gathered that information is an obvious game of telephone: Mel told aunt Ginger and aunt Ginger told Ma and Ma told Becca. The card probably only arrived this morning. His family is a gossip mill on speed.

“One: Stevie’s been a vegetarian since he watched that factory farming documentary when he was fourteen. Two: he’d do anything for you. Obvious.” This is already out of his control, and they aren’t even at the wedding yet. “Ma hasn’t figured it out, but she will. You better have your story straight before then, because this fumbling bullshit you just tried on me? That ain’t gonna hack it with her or the aunties.”

He wants to tell her the truth, he does. He wants to come clean. To her. To Steve. To everyone. He wants to say these set-ups everyone forces on him aren’t necessary, because he’s already found someone. He’s already in love. But that way lies rejection and pain, and he can’t take it. He can’t. It’s all connected—a house of cards, and if he tips one piece …

“Becca, seriously, it’s just awkward to talk about.”

“Baby brother.” She sighs, and Bucky feels a sick roiling of his stomach. He can’t remember the last time she called him that. “When I said Steve would do anything for you, I meant it. Maybe you need to ask yourself why.”

If Bucky ever had any intention of examining these things more closely, today is not that day. “Love you, Sis. Gotta go.”

 

* * *

 

If the conversation with Becca has shown him anything, it’s how woefully unprepared he is.

But he’s got weeks to plan. Time enough to set some ground rules with Steve, build a backstory, negotiate their comfort level with PDA. Bucky thinks about this a lot. How far will they need to take it to make things believable? He and Steve have been friends for years; to be convincing as a couple, they’re going to have to up the ante. So what will that look like? Holding hands? Dancing together? A quick peck? Bucky imagines the shrewd eyes of the Barnes clan on them and thinks maybe a solid, public declaration of affection and a single overt kiss should do it. To convince people. Just so they’ll leave him alone. In spare moments, he rehearses that kiss in his head—pulling Steve’s slight frame close, leaning down to meet him, the slide of lips, a soft groan. He imagines the way Steve might mold to him, sharp angles softened by the moment, bright eyes shining with want. More often than not, these rehearsals drive him into the shower, spilling himself onto the tile floor, left feeling dirtier than when he went in.

Of course, he discusses none of this with Steve. So his time dwindles, and before he knows it, Steve’s birthday is upon them. It’s only days before the wedding, and he’s got nothing to show for it. No plan. No hope of a plan. And debilitating embarrassment at the thought of even bringing it up.

Under the cloud of these thoughts, he enters the unmarked entrance next to Calamity Tattoo and climbs the stairs to Steve’s apartment. There’s already a sizable group when he pushes the door open; it looks like they closed down the shop early for the holiday, because anyone who might be manning the parlor is sitting around Steve’s living room, drink in hand.

“Bucky!” Steve yells, when he sees him. “Bucky, my favorite!” Steve’s cheeks are pink, eyes glassy, and he’s swaying in a way that says for him this party started a while ago. He’s wearing a frayed shirt that declares him the “Mother Fucking Birthday Boy” and jeans that look painted on. He stumbles over, sloshing the contents of his red Solo on the way.

“Hey, Stevie. Happy birthday,” he laughs. 

His hands are full, so he pulls Steve into a one-armed hug, rumpled blue hair tickling his nose. Apparently not satisfied with that muted affection, Steve wraps both arms around Bucky’s waist, mashing his face into his chest. The kid always was a lightweight. And an affectionate drunk. Bucky can’t help but notice the way Steve sinks into the cushion of his stomach, kneading fingers into the soft expanse of his back. There’s still a fair amount of muscle underneath it all—a steady diet of carbs and beer hasn’t yet erased years of military conditioning—but Bucky knows he’s more … squishy than he’s ever been before. He shifts in Steve’s grasp, increasingly uncomfortable.

“Hey, buddy. Let a guy breathe, why dontcha?”

Steve pulls away, mumbling apologies, and Bucky shrugs. 

“Here you go. For the party,” he says, holding up a bottle of Black Label. “And for you.” He waves a package wrapped in a newsprint comics page.

“Thanks, man.” Steve slides on a grin, soft-eyed and earnest. He tries to juggle cup, bottle, and package, but Bucky sees the disaster in that scenario and takes the present back, setting it down on a bookshelf.

“You can open it later.”

Salutations come from the other revelers as Bucky makes his way further into the room: Clint with a silent nod, Nat with a “Howdy sailor” from the perch of Clint’s lap, Peggy smiling as she pours him a drink, and Angie tip-tapping across the room to give him a hug.

“What’s this?” Bucky says, when he gets a load of her outfit.

“Shut up, it’s festive! I had a corporate gig today—some computer marketing conference thing—and the pervy organizer said I could keep the outfit.” She curtsies in a frilly, short, patriotic disaster of a dress. “I think he wanted me to model it for him in private. You shoulda seen his face when I told him thanks and booked it outta there.”

Peggy approaches from the kitchen, passing Bucky his drink. She wraps an arm around Angie’s star-spangled waist, chin resting on her shoulder. “We should send him a thank you card. I’m rather going to enjoy taking this off you later.”

The girls kiss to a house-wide chorus of “Get a room!”, and Bucky laughs, settling himself in an unoccupied seat in the corner. He takes a sip from the red cup, smokey sweetness sliding down his throat, and plays observer while conversation ebbs and flows.

Steve has a nice set-up here. An open plan brick-and-beam studio with lots of light and an unbeatable location for his commute. The shop and the apartment are on the same lease, and business is good enough that even if Steve was struggling at one point, he’s getting by just fine now. Bucky’s never gotten the full story, but he knows Nat was the one who put up most of the money for Calamity when they opened the space together a few years ago. They’ve never said anything about where she got the funds, but there are whispers about possible ties to the black market art scene or distant relations with Russian oligarchs. It’s all conjecture. Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if she’d started the rumors herself to elevate her intrigue-factor and cover a tragically boring backstory. 

Natasha Romanoff: sad little rich girl from Connecticut. 

Natasha Romanoff: Senator’s daughter with a rebellious streak.

Natasha Romanoff: Upper East Side princess, slumming it for the thrill.

He feels eyes on him and looks up to see Nat watching. She quirks a brow, and fuck if doesn’t seem like she can read his mind. Bucky swallows, flushed with guilt for being such a dick, even if only in his own head. He smiles tightly and takes a drink.

The thing is, he knows all of this—all the resentment and mistrust he feels for Nat—is born of jealousy. It’s simple as that. Nat was here when Bucky wasn’t. Nat helped make Steve’s dreams a reality when Bucky was off playing soldier. Nat witnessed first-hand Steve turning from a passionate little punk to an artist and business owner. She saw it all, and part of Bucky is afraid that, in spite of lip-service to the contrary, Nat is not only the best friend Steve has, but the best friend he deserves.

The buzzer sounds, and the room begins to fill in staggered groups of twos and threes. Bucky keeps his place in the corner, taking swigs until his cup is empty (and refilled, and emptied again), and the world feels soft around the edges. At some point, they decide to move outside, and the collected mass stumbles up five flights to the top floor landing, where a rickety drop-hatch ladder spills onto a black tar roof. They carry booze and snacks, speakers and fold-out chairs. Bucky settles near the edge of a potted garden, rubbing tomato leaves between his fingers as the horizon turns from blood red to bruise purple.

Bucky keeps Steve in his sights as he plays host and works his way through the crowd, sharing sloppy hugs with all comers and accepting new drinks when his cup runs dry. In addition to the usuals, Bucky’s familiar with some faces. Nick, who Steve and Nat apprenticed under at Fury Ink. Tall and leather-clad, he surveys the scene like a cool-headed anthropologist surrounded by feral children. There’s Pietro and Wanda, who make up a brother-sister band called The Twins. They flit from conversation to conversation, attached by an invisible thread. Excitable and brilliant is Jane, working on her PHD in Astrophysics, a girl Bucky suspects will one day rule the world. And towering above the rest is Thor, the golden-skinned, booming-voiced Nordic expat who runs the Asgard restaurant nearby. Bucky doesn’t recognize everyone in attendance, but that’s no surprise. Steve’s social circle has expanded exponentially in the last few years; of course there are people Bucky doesn’t know.

“Anyone sitting here?” a stranger says, as if on cue. “Mind if I join, or do you need some more alone time with the plants?”

Bucky cranes his neck up, startled by the epitome of _tall, dark, and handsome_ before him. He’s not Bucky’s usual type, if skinny blond guys named Steve Rogers can be considered a type, but as he takes in the broad shoulders, warm brown eyes, and mischievous smile, all Bucky can think is: _pretty._

“No. I mean, sure you can—of course. Have a seat,” he stammers, having apparently forgotten how to be human. 

“You look as out of place as I feel,” Pretty says, settling on his own patch of roof.

He’s maybe a little older than the median age of these kids, and yeah, he seems to be lacking the requisite tattoos, but nothing else about the guy spells odd man out. He looks totally comfortable in his skin.

“Sam,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Bucky,” he returns, shaking it. “Is it that obvious? I wasn’t over here looking mysterious and cool?”

“Petting a tomato? Not so much.” Sam laughs, and Bucky feels like he’s looking at a goddamn rainbow after a storm.

He indicates the plant with a shrug. “What can I say? We were having a moment.”

Sam grins, easy warmth radiating off him, and Bucky chuckles. This is good: laughing at himself, engaging in human contact. He was starting to feel maudlin, and the company of a hot, snarky ray of sunshine is the perfect antidote. He used to be able to connect like this, effortless, with anyone he met. But it seems he lost that skill somewhere along the way.

Conversation with Sam is easy. He tells Bucky about his work as an EMT (“I’ve seen some crazy shit, let me tell you, but most of the job is patching up poor people with no other access to healthcare; by the time I get to them, it’s almost too late,”) and his mission to find the best cupcakes in town (“Magnolia has the reputation, but Billy’s yellow daisies are _unbeatable_ ,”) and how he’s a mama’s boy at heart (“I can’t help it if the woman is literally a saint; that’s just the facts.”). Bucky tells him about some of the work he did overseas and his spit, grit, and duct tape approach to fixing shit in the desert. He weighs in on the great pizza debate—Lombardi’s vs. Grimaldi’s—and lands on the side of neither. For him, Brooklyn’s Motorino takes it. And Mrs. Wilson does sound rather saint-like, so he drinks to that.

When their cups are empty, Sam gets them another round and settles back down. “Gotta say, I was worried about crashing the party. My boy Riley said fireworks and booze, but didn’t mention anything about a birthday.”

Ah. So that explains why he was feeling out of place before. “Steve won’t mind,” he assures him, knowing it’s true. But if Sam’s been sitting here talking to Bucky for a good half hour, where exactly is this—friend? boyfriend?—he’s talking about? “Where’s Riley now? He just abandon you?”

“Nah. He’s over there,” Sam says, nodding to where Steve and another guy are huddled together. “He needed some words with his ex.” He laughs, adding, “Steve seems cool. _Mother Fucking Birthday Boy_. That’s great.”

“His ex?” Bucky says, before he can grasp the full implications of Sam’s words. Steve and this guy? This Riley guy, with his Abercrombie & Fitch looks and his thousand-watt smile and his huge paws clasped around Stevie’s shoulders? This guy is Steve’s ex? Fuck. _Fuck._ “Since when? I mean, I didn’t know Steve dated anyone named Riley.”

Sam doesn’t hear the rising distress in Bucky’s voice, or he’s pretending to ignore it. “Dunno. Before my time, anyway. I don’t think it was a serious thing; Riley’s not usually a relationship dude.”

Bucky isn’t sure if that should make him feel better or worse. He knows Steve’s dated men, but he’s never actually been faced with the evidence. It was all theoretical until now. And this guy? His ex? He’s a poster boy for Clean Cut American. Bucky glances at his calloused hands, his work boots and unwashed jeans, his shirt stretching across his soft belly, and thinks he couldn’t be more different from this guy.

“Hey, you okay?” Sam says. “You look a little green.”

“Yeah, fine.”

Steve throws his head back, shaking through a full-body laugh, then floats into Riley’s space, resting his head on Riley’s perfect fucking chest.

“Aw, man, I’m sorry,” Sam says tapping Bucky’s knee with his. “I didn’t know you and Steve were a thing. I wouldn’t have laid it on so thick if I’d know you were taken. You don’t have to worry, though. Riley’s a player, but he’s not out to steal anyone’s boyfriend.”

Bucky swallows, trying to ease the dry scrape of his throat. There’s too much to process in what Sam said. Was he flirting? Is that what was happening? And he thinks Bucky and Steve … ?

“No, that’s not—” Bucky corrects. “Steve’s not my boyfriend.”

Sam’s eyebrows fly up. “Really?”

Bucky shakes his head, short. Decisive. 

“Sorry. My mistake.” The moment stretches out, as awkward now as it was easy before. Sam tips his cup toward Steve and Riley. “Anyway, I’m sure they’re just catching up. Seriously, man.”

He knows he has no claim on Steve, but Bucky’s jealousy is flaring hot and bright. He can’t stop watching the intimate way Steve leans into Riley’s space, how they whisper into each other’s ears. Lost in thought, he startles to the movement next to him as Sam slaps his thighs and pushes to standing.

“Come on, Bucky, get up. I’m not gonna let you sit on your ass all night.”

“I’m fine. You should go enjoy the party.”

“I’m not leaving you here to mope.” He reaches out a hand. “My attempt to pick you up is clearly a non-starter, but it doesn’t need to be a total bust. Let’s give ‘em an eyeful.”

Sam starts to shake his hips, moving to a song blasting out of the speakers across the way. It’s few years old, a catchy tune that was popular on all the stations for a time, something about being young and setting the world on fire. Sam smiles wickedly, pulling Bucky up from his seat on the ground. He dances around, rhythm easy and playful.

“Come on, man, don’t make me do this alone.”

Bucky feels immeasurably stupid just standing here while Sam dances, so he starts to move, the hesitant shuffle-step of an adolescent. He used to like to dance. He used to be good. Like so many other things—making friends, chasing thrills, feeling at home in his skin—he has no idea where it went. He used to be somebody. When the hell did he turn into this shell?

Sam snaps his fingers. “Still with me?”

Bucky nods, pushing down his lingering ennui. He can do this. He can be here with Sam—dancing, laughing, being someone. Sam moves in close, hands sliding over Bucky’s sides, eyes teasing. With a burst of bravery, Bucky picks up the easy sway of hips, the pulse and drop of the beat. He can feel it under Sam’s touch—melting into movement, gray clouds of his thoughts dissipating with each thrum of his heart. He smiles as the music moves under his skin, through him, and he dares to touch Sam back. He closes his eyes and _feels_ , letting all the tension go. Sam shifts around, keeping contact, pressing to Bucky’s back, arms wrapped around him like a lover’s. Bucky sinks into the intimacy, thrilling to be touched like this. Wanted like this. Before he knows it, an audience has formed, and they rock together, summoning hoots and hollers from the crowd. He hears it; can’t see it. Eyes closed, he doesn’t look to see if Steve is watching. Can’t bear to know, one way or another.

Others join in, turning their section of roof into an impromptu dance floor. Bucky’s pulse is racing, sweat gathering at the base of his spine, and he feels _amazing_. His limbs buzz with unspent energy, and Sam gives him space as he moves, wild and free. He’s singing along, shouting out the chorus, jumping up and down and reaching skyward. Like he can capture the stars. Like he might tear them from their perch and consume their fire.

For a little while everything is okay.

 

* * *

 

By the time the fireworks start, Bucky is rumpled and exhausted. He dances and dances, chasing that buzz while bodies move like colorful dreams around him—until the first explosion bursts across the sky. Throat raw and sweat-soaked, he stumbles away from the mass in search of cool air and water.

“Didn’t know you had that in you,” Nat says, fireworks reflecting in her hair like glitter.

Bucky twists the cap off a bottle, downing it in one go. “It’s was fun. I used to love to dance.”

“Yeah. Steve said. I didn’t believe him before now.”

He shrugs, pushing down his discomfort with the idea that Steve has been talking about him to Nat. “Lots of stuff you don’t know, I guess.”

She smiles that inscrutable Mona Lisa smile. “Not that much.”

He excuses himself before he says something he’ll regret and goes in search of Steve. It feels like hours since he laid his eyes on him, and he’s desperate for the company of someone who can make him smile. It takes some time, turns into a wild goose chase as the partygoers point him toward one dead end after another.

“I saw him getting a drink with Nick.”

“Wasn’t he just doing shots with Phil? I could have sworn—”

“Yeah, he went downstairs to take a leak.”

The last turns out to be the most accurate. Though instead of pissing into the toilet in his apartment, he’s puking into it.

“Oh, man. I’m so sorry. Lemme get you some water,” Bucky says when he finds Steve alone, clawing at the porcelain. 

He fills a glass and wets a washcloth while Steve retches again and again. When he comes up for air, Bucky pushes the fringe off his forehead and wipes his mouth with the cool cloth. He flushes the toilet as Steve pants, glassy-eyed and miserable. It’s a few more minutes before Steve’s emptied his stomach, and Bucky tilts the glass against his mouth, urging him to rinse and spit. Bucky clasps his hand to the back of Steve’s neck as he drinks, frowning at the cold, clammy feel of his skin.

“Keep drinking. I’m gonna get you some pain meds, then we’re putting you into bed.” He finds some pills in the medicine cabinet and helps Steve get them down.

“I can walk,” he grouses when Bucky tries to lift him, but it turns out that’s an extreme over-estimation of his current abilities. Bucky wraps an arm around his middle, and they shuffle-step to Steve’s bed. With eyes carefully averted, he gets Steve out of his shoes and pants, tucking him under his blanket. He sets Steve’s frames and phone on the nightstand, and checks to make sure the latter is silenced.

“Bucky,” Steve groans. “ _Bucky_ … _why?_ ”

“I’m sorry, pal. I shoulda been looking out for you better. God knows anyone would end up like this, trying to keep up with that crowd.” His own world is spinning a little; it’s a good thing he bowed out when he did.

“Saw you dancing”, Steve mumbles, eyes closed. “Looked good.”

He blushes, thinking about what Steve must have seen. “Yeah. It was fun.” 

With a stab of regret, he realizes he never got Sam’s number, didn’t even thank the guy for being so nice to him. Now he feels like a huge tool.

“Coulda danced with me,” Steve slurs, derailing his thoughts.

It takes him a second to catch the meaning. Then he’s cursing himself for basically abandoning Steve all night. Maybe if he’d gone to talk to Steve or pulled him onto the dance floor, he wouldn’t be ending his evening in pain. Fuck, he’s letting people down left and right.

“Will you save me a dance at the wedding?” Drunk Steve seems to be one-note tonight.

“Sure, man. We’ll dance at the wedding,” he says absently, flipping off the lights. “Look, you need to sleep. I’m gonna stick around, make sure you’re okay.” He does _not_ linger on the horrifying thought of Steve choking on his own vomit. “I’ll be on the couch if you need me.”

“Can stay here, if you want.” Steve pats at the empty space next to him, brows furrowed with the effort of getting words out.

Bucky can imagine it—a little too well. The risk of waking up curled around Steve is too great (and too shameful) to even consider it. “Nah. You’ll sleep better without me tossing and turning. Want anything else?”

The resultant silence is all the answer he needs, and Steve’s already snoring by the time Bucky leaves his bedside. He jots off a text to Nat, letting her know the situation and asking her make sure Steve’s not disturbed. They might not get along, but he knows he can trust her to take care of this. When his phone buzzes with an affirmative reply, he turns it off. 

He settles on the couch with a spare blanket from the closet and his own glass of water, which he sets on the end table. His eye catches on two framed pictures he’s only ever glanced at before. One is Steve’s folks’ wedding photo, a black and white tribute to horrible 80s style. Bucky never met Steve’s dad, but Sarah Rogers was a huge presence in his life, a looming figure who welcomed Bucky like her own. It’s not a happy thought, now that she’s gone. He picks up the other picture, a sketch Steve drew when they were kids. Bucky’s surprised it survived all this time, through adolescent turmoil and multiple moves; Steve must have really cared about it. It features Bucky and his sisters—lovingly, if not expertly rendered—and a small wisp of a boy held up between them. He smiles at it, trailing his fingers over the glass.

Frame returned to the table, he pulls the blanket around him, drifting off to the soundtrack of Steve’s soft snores.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the love you've shown this story. Hugs and kisses all around. Come check me out on tumblr, if you want to fawn over feminism and fandom with me (this-simple-mind.tumblr.com). And as always, any artwork inspired by this story would send me into fits of joy.
> 
> Side note: I agree with both Bucky and Nat about the Mad Max franchise. Mad Max was awful. Furious Road is the best thing that has ever happened. I will fight you on this. (Not really, I'm a pacifist, but I might write a strongly-worded letter.)
> 
> xoxo,  
> sd


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Bucky, do you honestly think any of Sani’s Junior friends is going to want to be saddled with me for the night?” Steve barrels over Bucky’s protest. “Anyway, the rally? People dying in Iraq. War profiteering on an unconscionable scale. Ring any bells?”_
> 
> _“Well, how long do you need to stick around to earn your uber-radical bonafides? A few hours? We’re not going out until late, so I don’t see why you can’t fight the military industrial complex and catch a movie with your best friend.”_
> 
>  
> 
> Steve doesn't make high school easy, but Bucky wouldn't have it any other way.

He was waylaid in the hall—a happy detour, it turns out—and the controlled chaos of lunchtime is already in full swing by the time Bucky makes his way into the cafeteria. Becca promised to bring him a sandwich from off campus, one advantage of having a Senior for a sister, so he bypasses the line for food and winds his way through clouds of Axe Body Spray to their usual table in back. Steve’s Bio class lets out right next to the cafeteria, and he’s already eaten a rubbery slice of pizza down to the crust, now giving a well-loved moleskin his full attention.

“I keep telling you, you don’t gotta sit alone. We have other friends, you know.” Bucky collapses into a seat and picks up Steve’s crust. “You gonna eat this?” He reads Steve’s noncommittal grunt as an affirmative and finishes it off in a couple bites.

“ _You_ have other friends.” Steve doesn’t bother looking up. “I have a dozen of your friends willing to tolerate me and a JV football team that looks at me like I’m a weird growth on your elbow.”

Bucky sighs and pulls his backpack into his lap. There’s an apple in there somewhere, and he’s _starving_. “It’s not like people don’t like you, Stevie,” he says, motioning victoriously with his slightly-bruised treasure. “They just don’t know you.”

Steve hunches his shoulders and leans further over his sketchbook. The scratch of his pencil is barely-audible over the din, but Bucky can see his frustration as the feathery lines of his drawing turn harsh and heavy. He should lay off, he knows, but he can’t give up the idea that if Steve would just open up a bit, put himself out there, he’d have more friends than he could count.

“They know enough, Buck.” Steve looks up and casts a brief but pointed glance his direction.

A snarky retort hovers on the tip of his tongue, but Steve shakes his head, loosing the curtain of his bangs and effectively ending that line of conversation. It’s an unconscious habit now—covering up like that—born when the first faint scattering of acne started popping up across Steve’s cheeks and forehead sometime last year. It’s not the only thing that’s changed since they met. Steve doesn’t have a beard to speak of, but Bucky’s seen the soft blond hairs coming in under his armpits when he changes in gym and during their weekend sleepovers. And Steve’s still the shortest and skinniest guy in the Sophomore class, but his body is lean and toned rather than just scrawny, the result of all those back alley scrapes he never tries to avoid. Not like Bucky, who bulked up so fast with regular football and soccer practices, he’s always in danger of bumping into walls and tables. Steve’s grown into that beaky nose, and when his hair is out of his face long enough for Bucky to catch a glimpse, it’s easy enough to see that he’s a handsome guy. Those earnest blue eyes. Those plump pink lips. Smart guy like that, respectful and noble … girls should be all over him. Bucky can’t figure why they aren’t.

He munches the apple down to the core, and after a moment’s consideration, bites into that, polishing off the whole thing. It’s kind of rough going down, but his stomach feels like it’s turned inside out with hunger. These days, he seems to burn off anything he consumes faster than he can take it in.

“You don’t have to resort to eating trash. I told you I’d bring you something.” On cue, Becca drops a paper bag on the table, and Bucky groans in appreciation. “Turkey on wheat with the works for you.” She turns to Steve. “And a cookie for my favorite brother.”

Steve looks up and grins, the traitor. “Thanks, Becca,” he says then catches Bucky’s mournful gaze. “Oh, knock it off. You know I’m gonna share.”

Bucky would express his gratitude, but he’s already chewing a mouthful of turkey sub. He smiles instead, flashing masticated bits of sandwich bliss, and Steve grimaces, pushing him away.

“Gross! Come on, Bucky!” In spite of his objection, he can’t hide his amusement, mouth pursed tight to stifle a smirk.

Unimpressed, Becca rolls her eyes and moves to join her friends. “Later, losers.”

“Wait, are we on for tomorrow?” Steve says, cookie hovering halfway to his mouth. “I checked, and the timing works out if we leave right after school.”

“Sure,” she says, turning back to face him. “You making signs for us? We should have signs.”

Bucky inhales half of his sandwich, gaze ping-ponging between the two. Warning lights go off as he puts the clues together. Defiant, rabble-rouser gleam in their eyes, an event requiring signs. Becca knows how Steve gets at these things—why does she keep encouraging him?

“It’s all set,” Steve says, ignoring Bucky’s deepening scowl. “The coalition said they were going for a blood-splattered look in the lettering, and I’ve got enough signs for you and me and half a dozen others.”

“Great.” Becca’s friends call to her, and she waves them off. “I gotta go. I’ll meet you by the gates at the bell tomorrow,” she hollers over the din then adds a sing-song, “See you later, baby brother.”

“Don’t call me that,” Bucky grumbles to her retreating back, shoving the last of the sandwich in his mouth. He’s still not satiated, but the gnawing ache in his stomach has dampened to a dull pang. He makes gimme hands, and Steve huffs.

“You’re a human garbage disposal.”

“I’m a growing boy,” he says, anticipating the glorious, chocolate-chip-induced sugar high. “What are you two getting up to now?”

Steve breaks the cookie in half and passes it over. “Tomorrow’s the fifth anniversary of the invasion of Iraq, and the Peace Action Coalition is holding a protest at the stock exchange. You got practice? You could come with us.”

He doesn’t have practice, but he does have something going on, Bucky remembers with a flush. It’s the reason he was late getting into the cafeteria—an obstacle in the form of a tall brunette on a mission. He clamps down on the goofy smile trying to break free and leans in, wagging his eyebrows. “No practice, but I got something else.”

Steve sweeps his bangs aside, eyeing Bucky suspiciously. “Oh, yeah?”

Bucky nods. He’s got Steve’s full attention now, and he’s going to milk this moment for all it’s worth.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Well, spit it out.”

“I’m taking Sani Dahan to that new Matthew McConaughey movie tomorrow night.”

“Sani Dahan?”

Bucky nods.

Steve closes the moleskin and tucks it into his bag. “On a date?”

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s a Junior.”

“ _Uh-huh._ ” Eyes wide, smile bursting, Bucky basks in Steve’s impressed silence.

“Wow.”

“I could see if she has a friend,” he says, clamping an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “We could go together.”

“For Matthew McConaughey? No thanks.”

“Kate Hudson is in it too, and look, the movie doesn’t _matter_. Girls, Steve. A real live _date_.” He wants Steve to be there, he realizes. Can picture the two of them in the dark theater, girls on their sides, sharing popcorn and laughs. It sounds perfect.

“Bucky, do you honestly think any of Sani’s Junior friends is going to want to be saddled with me for the night?” Steve barrels over Bucky’s protest. “Anyway, the rally? People dying in Iraq. War profiteering on an unconscionable scale. Ring any bells?”

“Well, how long do you need to stick around to earn your uber-radical bonafides? A few hours? We’re not going out until late, so I don’t see why you can’t fight the military industrial complex _and_ catch a movie with your best friend.”

“ _Bucky_.”

“ _Steve_.”

The cafeteria is emptying out, and Steve rises to his feet, slinging his pack over a shoulder. “I don’t need to go out with someone just to go out. I’d rather it was someone …” Bucky never finds out what he would rather, because Steve waves his hand as though clearing the thought. “Anyway, I’m happy for you. Enjoy it.”

A cold feeling creeps over Bucky as he tries to reconcile his mounting sense of disappointment. He really wants Steve there, like something would be missing if he weren’t. But once Steve’s made up his mind …

“All right, man. I guess I’ll go with you and Becca to the protest before I meet up with Sani. Keep you from looking for trouble, punk.”

“I don’t go looking for trouble, jerk,” Steve says over the fifth period bell. 

Bucky steers Steve through the crush of bodies heading out of the cafeteria. “Sure, Stevie. Trouble just manages to find you every chance it gets.”

…

He’s not wrong. Whether trouble finds him or he finds trouble doesn’t matter when Bucky’s shielding Steve from a beatdown and near-arrest. Turns out cops don’t look kindly on punk protesters calling them fascists and spitting on them, and Steve’s got a bloody nose and sprained wrist to show for it. Bucky managed to drag Becca and Steve out in the confusion, cursing them the whole way home. Steve can’t show up at home like this again—Sarah’s been sick lately and Steve feels guilty enough to try to protect her from his own stupidity—so it’s an impromptu sleepover at the Barnes house with bonus nursing duties for Bucky. He spends the night alternately tending Steve’s aches and shouting at him for his goddamned death wish.

“You saw that cop, he was pushing protesters around, egging people on,” Steve says, trying to defend himself. “He’s supposed to be there to protect people!”

“But the way you handle this shit, it’s like you think you’re invincible. Like you want to take on the whole world by yourself.”

“I can’t help it if people are assholes, Bucky.”

“Jesus, Steve, would you listen to yourself? You’re a disaster waiting to happen, a fucking calamity!”

Steve sulks and grumbles but shuts up after that. Bucky’s so busy worrying over Steve, he doesn’t think of his date until Steve’s snoring in his bed. He checks his phone and winces, finding five missed text messages from Sani and figures any chance he might have had with her is shot. But when Steve rolls toward him, face lax and peaceful in sleep, Bucky can’t even bring himself to feel bad about the missed opportunity. 

 

 

 

 

.... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for being so patient with me. I love this story, but it's going to be a slow slog to get it out. My original fic is taking precedence right now, and I need to honor that. Thanks for sticking with me so far and for all of your support.
> 
> xoxo,  
> SD


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